The Incredible Team
by vifetoile89
Summary: Who assembled the nine mercenaries? Someone with a disregard for human life, an eye for team building, and someone with an aversion to superpowers... The answer? Buddy Pine, eccentric billionaire, also known as... Syndrome. X-over: The Incredibles/TF2.
1. Prologue

The Incredible Team

Disclaimer: The Incredibles belongs to the wonderful world of Pixar. Team Fortress 2 and all its characters belong to Valve. I got the idea from TV Tropes. The story is mine.

For Shane

Prologue - The Dream

Buddy Pine had learned that no one could be trusted – especially not Supers. Supers could not be relied on to be friendly or kind, or especially to work in a team. Teams of Supers regularly failed, fell apart. Too many egos, too many powers, one perfectly good boardroom ruined. The one weakness of all Supers, Buddy Pine reasoned, was teamwork.

Therefore, teamwork was how they could be combated.

Non-Supers could work together. Non-Supers could _really_ combine their strengths and weaknesses into something greater than the sum of its parts. Buddy Pine knew this. As the CEO of Noman Corporations, a now multinational and billion-dollar industry in arms and technology, he knew very well the astounding ability of human beings – _non-Supers_, mind you – to put aside their differences and create something –

Not incredible. Never incredible. Astounding.

"Mowning, Mistah Pine," came an aggressively South Bostonian voice from the elevator. "Got yer newspapers, got yer coffee nice an' hot, and got a no-fat no-protein diet mocha frappe for your new gel, 'cause she asked me personally. I tell you that is one _foxy_ lady you hired, Mr. P, I tell you!"

"Thank you, Jack." Mr. Pine turned away from the window. Mr. Pine always made it a point to know the names of everyone who worked under him with whom he had the slightest interaction. Jack B. Nimble the delivery boy was no exception. "Jack – you're a man of the streets, yes?"

"Oh, you betcha Mr. P. I'm from the toughest streets _any_ side of Boston. If you was from where I was from, maaaan, you'd be fuckin' dead."

"I _am_ more capable than I appear." Mr. Pine allowed himself a wise smile.

"Oh, I don't doubt that Mr. P. I hear you're a damn terror in… well, everywhere."

"Precisely. But, Jack, I've got some ideas I don't know _quite_ how to sort out. Mind if I bounce a few off of you?"

"No, sir. I don't mind being bounced. I just hit back. 'Boink.'"

"Jack, you were born after the Supers were sent into hiding. But you know about them."

"Oh, who doesn't know about the Supers, Mr. P? They were the big-time!"

"Yes, I suppose they were. But imagine, if you will, a team of fighters – _non-_Supers, that is important – the very best at fighting. The quickest, the strongest, the sneakiest… do you think that a Super would have a chance against, say, eight of such fighters?"

"Stand a chance? Man would be a cream on the pavement, no matter who 'e was. Fightin's a dirty business, but when you're good at it, man, you're _good_ at it. Like a force a' nature, that's what a _good_ fighter is."

Mr. Pine nodded. "Thank you, Jack. That will be all."

"You sure, Mr. P?"

"I'm sure. You've been very helpful. Here." He tossed Jack an uncertain sum of money. "Go buy something for yourself."

"Hey, thank Mr. P! You're all right!" Jack nodded, then sprinted out of the room and down the hallway. He was always running. Almost like he was afraid someone would catch him. But boy, he could run. If reports were to be believed, he took the stairs every day up to "Dah Boss's office," just because he could.

Mr. Pine turned back to the window, overlooking the four massive skyscrapers that loomed below his own office. "Mirage?" he said into his watch.

"Yes, Mr. Pine?" she replied, smoothly. She _was_ foxy.

"I'd like you to look up some people for me."

"What are their names?"

"I'm not looking for names, per se. I'm looking for… qualities. Let's see who's got the worst criminal record and is still alive."


	2. 1 Ivan Ivanovitch

1 – Ivan Ivanovitch

Ivan Ivanovitch did not seem to feel the cold. He sat opposite Mr. Pine in the warehouse, the light glinting off of his shaved head (Ivan's bald head – the light flared in Mr. Pine's carefully maintained pouf.)

"I am heavy-weapons-guy," he explained slowly in adequate English. "And _this_ is my weapon."

Mr. Pine nodded at the gun with respect and raised his eyebrows when Ivanovitch described the capabilities of the gun and how much it cost to fire per minute. Ivanovitch seemed to be the type who took a long time to work out sums, but once he had them in his head, they stayed there.

Or maybe not. Asked on his opinion about the morality of Soviet Russia and the race of Supers, his expression went blank and he eventually managed to recite a schoolyard poem about Glorious Mother Russia. However, when Mr. Pine asked him, "What do you think makes you a good fighter?" Ivaonvitch's answer was much more forthcoming (again, allowing for the space of a few minutes).

"Some people think they can outsmart me. Maybe. Maybe." He gave a grin, and held up a sharp slug. "I've yet to meet one who can outsmart _bullet_."

The next step, of course, was the testing grounds. The moving, jumping, and sometimes attacking figures posed no threat to Ivan Ivanovitch, and if any did, he was sufficiently angered by that one to pulverize the next fifteen into goo. And he was delighted that they exploded. He said "Sasha" liked it when they exploded.

Mr. Pine smiled. The next step, of course, would be the negotiations with the Ruskies for their best employee… but a few picks from Noman Corporation's newest line of Advanced and Specialized Weaponry should be more than soothing.

Mr. Pine, bundled up in furs, stepped over the last of the training dummies – what was left of it. He approached Ivanovitch with his hands up – one finger on the Zero-Point Energy switch. This was a good move; Ivanovitch's first move was to point Sasha straight at Mr. Pine's head.

However, when Mr. Pine let down enough of his muffler to show that he was smiling, Ivanovitch gave a grin too.

"Ivan Ivanovitch," he said, smiling, "Welcome to the team. You're the first member."

Thank you for the positive reception of the first chapter! I meant to post last week, but it was far too busy… anyway, I know this chapter derived heavily from the 'Meet the Heavy' video, but I promise later chapters will be both longer and more original. (Length, however, is a special issue on this fic – I wanted to test myself to see how _concisely_ I could write.)


	3. 2 Johnny JumpUp

2 – Johnny Jump-Up

You had to give Johnny Jump-Up some credit. Who else would rig up his entire room in the St. Barbara's Mental Institution with authentic posters begging for war bonds, historically accurate maps, and mobiles of ten different air strikes? Man had dedication – as shown by his shelf of hard-earned, hand-made medals of valor. There was Andrew Sisters crooning and even a functioning tin coffeepot. Mr. Pine sampled some. It tasted like turpentine, but Mr. Pine suspected that was the point.

When Mr. Pine arrived it turned out to be the recess hour of the mental patients. Johnny Jump-Up had already proved himself an able leader. He had eight of the other patients lined up, terrified, as he lectured them on the philosophy of "If Fighting is Sure To Result In Victory, Then You Must Fight!"

"Sons, who said that?" Johnny Jump-Up demanded, rhetorically. "And I think he knows a _leetle_ bit more about fighting than _you_ do, buddy-boy, because he _invented _it!"

"He's absolutely barking mad," the head of St. Barbara's assured Mr. Pine.

"I know. That doesn't deter me."

"… And then he perfected it so that no man living or dead could best him in the ring of honor!"

"… In fact, I find it rather charming."

"I ask again, sons, who said that? No guesses? None? I'm not surprised. It was only the greatest Chinese American hero alive, Sun-Tzu! Now what do you say to _that_?"

In the testing grounds, Johnny Jump-Up performed with stupendous morale, unassailable grit, and moderate amounts of cunning. Mr. Pine was pleased. If not a great on-the-ground thinker, he was a fearless fellow who could rally other people around him and follow a plan. He'd make as good a leader as anybody. And St. Barbara's was a lot easier to negotiate with than Soviet Russia, that was certain.

Johnny Jump-Up, for his part, was downright delighted to be recruited at last in an army – the words 'elite' and 'top-secret' and 'all-American' only made him giddier. His entire room was unpacked in an hour. As he rode away in the car next to his new employer, he said brusquely, "Now I am awful honored to be serving with you and what I'm sure are my fine teammates, but I have to let you know – there's three kinds of people I won't serve with. Women," he held up a thick finger, "Faggots," another finger, "and goddamn foreigners. _Especially_ not Communist Ruskies."

"Ah," said Mr. Pine. "Ah-ha. Well. Er. What about supers?"

"All Supers are faggots, so they fall into cater-gory two."

"Excellent. Well, supers is the only thing _I'm_ worried about, Mr. Jump-Up, so I'm sure we'll be just fine…"

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! This chapter gets a sterner rating than previous ones on account of language. Tune in next time!


	4. 3 Shane Smith

2 – Shane Smith

With two players, Mr. Pine knew they needed at least a third. With a third, two players could keep an eye on the other one. Ivanovitch was strong, and Johnny was well-rounded, but they needed someone who could bring something new to the table… and, as was evident from the very first meeting of Johnny and Ivanovitch, they would need someone with a mellow enough personality to keep those two from killing _each other_.

It was, of all people, Johnny himself who suggested the fellow.

"It was in the summer of '54 when I happened to meet Shane. He was a mechanic from Bee Cave, Texas. Not too far from the Alamo." He pounded his chest with his fist. "Remember the Alamo!" Then he glared at Ivanovitch.

"_Vat_?" Demanded the Russian, who hated interrupting his dotage on Sasha for any reason. "Vat you look at me for? Ve had nothing to do wit' de Alamo!"

"Aye, that's what you _say…_" After a while, Mr. Pine was able to get enough out of Johnny to find some very interesting details on Shane: that he had, for example, an entire garage full of machines he'd built himself, most of which had nothing to do with cars, but a lot to do with guns. That Johnny had snuck up on this garage, to see if it was a trap, and had barely got away with his life. That he'd gone back next week to make sure it _still_ was a trap, to be rewarded by even _more_ guns. Furthermore, from what Johnny'd seen as he'd been sent careening into the sky, there was an entire shelf of nothing but books – hardcover books – hidden in the back of the shed.

This all made Syndrome _very_ interested in finding 'Ol' Shane.'

"_I wandered lonely as a cloud_

_That floats on high o'er vales and hills,  
When all at once I saw a crowd,  
A host of golden daffodils._"

Daffodils. Six-petalled flowers with parallel veining in their leaves. Well, Wordsworth liked them. Now, if you was wandering lonely as a cloud, and happened to come across a crowd of what _looked_ like daffodils but was actually small artillery weaponry, solar and wind-powered, that at a signal would unfurl and…

"A-hem."

Shane looked up from his notebook. A businessman with red hair going up in a column atop his head was standing there. He had a red Jaguar convertible parked in the driveway. The car didn't look like it was more than a few hours old.

"Mornin', pardner," Shane said slowly, standing up. "An' how can I be of service this fine day? Fix yer radio, perhaps? A bit of tinkering on the ol' gas tank?"

"I'm not looking for a repairman, sir. I'm looking for an engineer."

Shane's expression did not change. "An engineer for what?"

"A man who can build a lot of machines," the businessman explained from behind his shades, "very quickly; Machines that can kill a lot of people in a short amount of time. I'm wondering, are you at all opposed to violence?"

"Oh, I don't quite fancy violence as a… ah, an abstraction. You see, I'm a practical man. I solve practical problems. But in the abstract… I like to study violence. Yes, even in the abstract, I do find violence… fascinating. As all minds of a certain caliber must."

"I see. Mr. Shane, what if I suggested to you that you abandon this life that you've been leading and embrace a life that's… how to put it… a life where violence is always in the practical, never in the abstract?"

There was a pause. "Remember what you said about making machines that can kill people?"

"Yes?"

"I'm _real_ good at that."

On that day, the two men shared something truly special: maniacal, villainous, delighted, depraved laughter.

"Ah, yes," Mr. Pine said as the helicopters carefully carted away the entirety of Shane's hand-made arsenal, "This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

* * *

Hello again, and thank you all for the reviews!

To RedStormTrooper, actually a 'Johnny Jump-Up' is a name of a small type of flower, which I liked for the irony. I considered naming him Johnny Getyergun, but then decided against it. Thanks for the review and keep reading!


	5. 4 Mr Ian Johnson

4 – Ian Johnson

Ivanovitch had been in the employ of the U.S.S.R. Johnny had been a ward of St. Barbara's. Shane had inherited his father's auto repair business. However, the Adelaide Assassin, aka the High Lama of Head Trauma, was completely and utterly self-employed. He relied on no one. He was far and away the most feared assassin on the Australian Continent, and for several continents around, too. Mr. Pine had never read his name in a court briefing, had never seen him on the news. The man's fame was through that most tenuous, yet powerful medium of all: word-of-mouth.

The phone box in the middle of the desert started ringing.

Mr. Johnson stopped polishing his rifle to stare at it in bewilderment. He looked around – would there be a sniper perched on a nearby mesa, waiting for him to answer like a shmuck? But no one, utterly no one was in sight.

The phone kept ringing.

Glancing around with the paranoia of a hawk, Johnson slowly approached the phone and answered it.

"'Ello?"

There was a silence on the other line. Mr. Johnson sighed. "Dad, if this is you again, I swear I'm going to…"

"Mr. Ian Johnson," said a cool, low female voice. It was not a question.

Johnson narrowed his eyes. "How do you know my name?"

"Mr. Johnson, I do not wish to alarm you in any way. I represent a powerful client who wishes to hire your services for an… indefinite amount of time."

"Is that right? Name 'im."

"Do you know Mr. Pine, of Noman Corporations?"

Johnson blinked. Who _didn't_ know Noman Corporations? He'd been hired to pull a hit on Mr. Pine himself some years back, but at the last minute the hit had been cancelled. Too risky. The man was too powerful.

"Yes. What does he want with me?"

" He is recruiting, sir, for an elite army. He wishes to gather around him the best assassins in the world. He would like for you to join the ranks."

"Why don't he hire the Ayers Acid-breather? He's working underground and still the most lethal killer if you need a…"

"Mr. Pine is interested in strictly _non-_Super assassins. He would make this assignment well worth your while."

"And how much would that be?"

She named a sum.

Johnson had to grip the phone box very tightly for support. "Is – is that so?"

"Yes. Mr. Pine is also willing to negotiate a contract with sick days and holidays."

"What exactly do I have to do?"

"Kill people. And work with other assassins in order to kill more people. Does this prospect sound… unsavory?" Damn, that was a sultry voice. Johnson wondered if her looks matched her voice.

"It sounds… well, ma'am, it sounds _very_ savory. Very. Er, how do I exactly…"

"Go to Sydney National Airport, Mr. Johnson. You will find a representative of ours waiting at the gate to escort you to Boston with a first-class ticket."

"But—"

"If you need time to get your things ready, by all means take that. We shall be ready whenever you arrive. There is no rush."

"Well… all right, then."

When he arrived at Syndey National Airport three hours later, there she was at the gate. White blonde hair. Figure with the proportions of a good bottle of wine – and she wasn't much bigger than that, either. Green cat eyes. Everything about her spelled 'danger' – except for the parts that spelled out 'babe.'

"Mr. Johnson?" she said smoothly, her voice curling into a question mark. "I'm glad to see you could make it. Let's check your bags in and then… be on our way." She smiled. Johnson grinned as he followed her.

Danger is _fun_.

Dear Mum,

You and Dad'll be glad to hear that I've found a new job. Mr. Pine of Noman Corporations – yes, THE Mr. Pine – has hired me for the Builders League United Enterprise, and he says that "My skills and experience make me a natural for the position." I'm to be paid a nice cushy salary and I'm staying in America now with a bunch of blokes. They're eccentric fellows, but there's one from Texas who's all right. I'll send a picture soon.

Your boy,

Ian

Hello again!

I've been keeping up with the Soldier and Demoman updates, so now I know such sundry details as their real names and more about their previous lives… but still, I wrote this story long before such updates, and I have reasons for all the names I gave to the classes, so the story stays the way it is. Just consider it as now officially AU, at least in a few details.

Thanks for reading! Do keep it up.


	6. 5 Sean MacEoin

5 – Sean MacEoin

The winds were sharp, scuttling across the surface of the dark loch. They whipped the kilt around the knees of Sean MacEoin as he sniffed the air with a relish.

"Ach," he said, "Tis a fine day fer someone else ter die."

His one eye scanned the entire landscape. Mist crawled along the ground around him as though in fear. Now and again the sun would break through the sky, alleviating the chill, only to retreat back into its high-borne prison.

Whistling "Amazing Grace," he crouched over his newest creation, a careful work of chemistry, metallurgy, and the art of ballsiness.

"Mr. MacEoin?" Came a voice from behind him. Sean did not start up, as someone with lesser self-control might have. Instead, he very calmly set down the wire he'd been intending to plug, put down the bomb, and lifted his head. A man with vivid red hair, wearing an old-fashioned hunting suit, was standing in front of him, docking his hat respectfully. " Good morning, sir."

"Who's doin' the good mornin's?" Sean asked, suspicious.

"A man who is sincerely interested in your work," came the gracious reply.

"Aye, an' would that be me work in the Glasgow Demolitions Team," Sean growled, "or me work at Hamish's Pub and Grill?"

"Your work right there, Mr. MacEoin. Your work with what I believe is a three-caliber level A1-13X explosive, aka a 'Minstrel Boy,' of the sort used when you destroyed the remains of the Wardman Building, as well as the swamp environment that surrounded it."

"Aye," Sean nodded with pride. "That were a Minstrel Boy, gone to the wars. Good for detonatin' a swamp. But I've yet to see…" he nodded towards the flat waters, "if she'll put up a fight against the Loch Ness Monster."

"Ah. But is that a true Water Bomb, as it is called?"

Sean's one good eye scowled. "Nay. I can't get the godrotting materials for a true Christ-fornicating Water Bomb in this fucking wasteland. I'll be lucky if this harp-fucking Minstrel Boy manages to make Nessie flounder ashore after Christmas, let alone blast her from here to pox-ridden hell."

"Exactly what materials would you need?" the well-dressed man asked.

The Scotsman listed them, with many an expletive and a colorful adjective.

The hunter nodded at each item and, when the list was concluded, said, "I can provide you all of those materials and more, if you're interested in working for me."

"What sort o' trade?"

The hunter explained. It took some time, but at last, the Scotsman laughed loud and long, crying, "You got yerself a _Demoman_, Mr. Pine!"

They left the hills together, Sean carrying his not-quite-done-yet bomb under his arm. The sun came out as a helicopter took off, casting a large shadow far below it.

From just under the surface of Loch Ness, a Devonian creature blinked up at the passing helicopter, and gave a sigh of relief, sending a trail of bubbles up to the surface.


	7. 6 Jacques Fantome

Happy New Year, Everyone! I hope your holidays were merry and bright. Enjoy the latest chapter!

* * *

6 – Jacques Fantôme

Mr. Pine turned on the lamp.

Outside his door, a movement stopped suddenly.

Mr. Pine took off his jacket. He shed his clothes like a dog shedding water, and changed into his pyjamas.

Outside his door, a body was dragged into the supply cabinet and disposed of.

Mr. Pine washed his face and sat on his bed.

Outside his door, a shadow lurked.

Mr. Pine turned off the lamp.

There was a click, and suddenly a cold knife was at Mr. Pine's throat. A butterfly knife clasped in a kidskin glove.

Mr. Pine let out the smallest intake of breath. "I regret nothing."

"I know," shushed a deep, cool voice.

Then there was the _shck, shck_ of a butterfly knife being sheathed.

The lamp was on again. A bottle of wine, half-emptied by now, sat on the table between the two men. They laughed now, lightly.

"How right you are about French women."

"They do hold a dear place in my heart, of course… but I knew a woman from the south streets of Boston once upon a time…" the spy's eyes grew a little dreamy behind his dark mask.

"Er…" Mr. Pine took a quick sip of wine to give him strength. "I have to ask sir, exactly who hired you to…"

"To kill you?" The spy snuffed his cigarette into the ashtray. "Do you know who I am, monsieur?"

"You are Jacques Fantôme, also known as the Prime Minister of Sinister, and the Duke of Spook…"

"I did not approve those nicknames, I assure you," Jacques Fantôme said in his French accent.

"… in short, the most feared assassin on the European Continent."

"I _do_ merit that title." Jacques smiled over his glass of blood red wine.

"But who hired you to kill me?"

"Only… let me see…" he proceeded to list the names of four of the most powerful leaders on the European Continent, then three from the Middle East, and several important people of the United States.

Mr. Pine considered each of these names with a shadowed brow. "I suppose word of my project has spread farther than I had wished…"

"If I may say so, sir, recruiting directly from the Soviets themselves was not the most subtle move. Nor was hiring the so-called Adelaide Assassin. And that soldier lunatic… he has the, what do you say… the grace of a speeding Mac truck."

Mr. Pine allowed himself one raised eyebrow. It sounded, more than anything, like Jacques was giving him _advice_…

"Now, I, on the other hand…"

Mr. Pine raised his other eyebrow.

"I have been called subtlety incarnate. Without being a Super, I can infiltrate anywhere, be anything, kill _anyone_, without leaving a single smear of cigarette ash." Jacques smiled with very even, slightly sharp teeth. "And I hear, Monsieur Pine, that you have developed a near-perfect cloaking device."

"Emphasis on _near_," Mr. Pine said quickly, even though a smile was breaking out over his face. "It only works for a few seconds at a time… so far…"

"Give me a few seconds, you give me the world. And… you get me as a member of your team."

And that had been _that_. Sure, Johnny would have something to say about it once he heard, and Johnson would surely feel that his thunder was being stolen, but Jacques had hired himself, and Mr. Pine could hardly say no.

For one thing, it wouldn't have been polite. For another, it wouldn't have been safe.


	8. 7 J

7 - "J"

Mr. Pine had spent a lot of time building a few very careful weapons before interviewing his next prospective.

First of all, a suit that would look dapper and professional, yet be able to withstand blasts of flame, fire, and kerosene later set on fire. He almost asked the retired fashion designer Edna Mode for help, but decided against it. Eventually he decided that dapper and professional took a back seat to the value of safety. Safety first, that was his motto always.

Next of all, he took along his voice modulator to aid in comprehension, a gas mask that matched his suit, a protective hat, and several prototype designs of his latest flamethrowers and flame-related weapons, as a peace offering. For that special little touch, he had them all monogrammed with the initial – in fact, the only known name – of his prospective:

"J."

J was a man – presumably – of few words. That is to say, the words he – presumably – preferred were short and completely unintelligible through the heavy mask. In lieu of speaking, J had shown Mr. Pine a video, lovingly hand-made, and clearly quite old, called "Why I Love Fire."

The film was actually a rather darling little thing. It started with a slideshow of a little girl. Photographs showed her at the Fourth of July, at Christmas, at Halloween, running around with sparklers, lighting up jack-o-lanterns, setting entire trees on fire with a huge grin on her face…Then words came up on the screen, like from an old silent.

"Ever since I was little, I have loved fire."

A jolt seemed to go through Mr. Pine's system. He looked from the smiling girl in black and white to the gas mask toting, heavy-breathing Frankenstein beside him. Suddenly he felt like he should really start cutting back on the Pall Malls.

More photos passed, of a teenaged girl, smoking happily with her friends and winning a chemistry award, and venturing bravely to the science faire. Next showed a news item of how the entire school where the science faire took place caught fire within five minutes of the experiment being set up.

Beside Mr. Pine, J nodded happily.

Mr. Pine swallowed hard.

Finally, after many more such images, (where the star's bright smile and once-clear eyes eventually disappeared entirely behind a thick mask), the final cards rolled.

"As you can see, I love fire very much. It has been worshipped in the olden days and I worship it now. I have given my life, most of my voice, and most of my friends to the pursuit of perfection of fire. After all, the Constitution says that we have a right to the pursuit of happiness. And this is my pursuit. God bless America."

'_Well, the Soldier will like… her… at any rate_,' Mr. Pine thought.

After that slide came a new one, saying, "PLEASE HIRE ME!"

Then, the film suddenly developed holes which widened to swallow up the entire screen. It melted, resulting in a single white plane with what looked like burnt caramel all around its edges.

Mr. Pine looked to the projector – or, rather, to the melted, smoke-spewing wreck that had, until recently, been a video projector. Behind it stood J. And a flamethrower.

Mr. Pine took out the voice modulator. "I believe we can come to an understanding…"

A few days later…

Johnny, Ivan, and Sean (who was trying pants on for size, instead of kilts) were doing their morning run around BLU Headquarters, loudly singing as they passed by the others in their rooms:

"Sound off!"

"One! Two!"

"Sound off!"

"_Vat_ is dat?"

Johnny began to sing-song, "That's not _accu_-OOF!" he bumped into Ivan, then Sean collided into him. The two looked around Ivan, and all three jaws dropped.

At the end of the hallway, in the second-to-last room, pink reigned supreme. Pink draperies hung in the windows, a bedspread bedecked with yellow flowers was tucked in a corner, and there came a sound of _humming_ from within.

"It's a _flamer_," Johnny whispered. "Sneak up real careful, boys, you don't want him to latch on you and start turning you gay…"

"Oh shut yer mouth…" Sean snuck forward, closer to the door. "Now who's doin' that humming…"

At once the humming stopped. A figure in a blue fireproof suit and wearing a thick, impenetrable mask appeared in the doorway – apparently she had been hanging up posters until a moment prior.

"Hmm…" Johnny scratched his chin. "Doesn't look like a flamer…"

"Vat is, 'flamer'?" Ivan asked.

As if in answer, the masked figure held up a cigarette lighter and flicked it on. Then, in one motion, she tossed the lighter at the three men and closed the door.

It was then that they noticed the puddle of kerosene in which they had all been standing.

A little while later, the sweet crooning of the Ink Spots sounded through the hall:

"_I don't want to set the world on fire…"_

At that same time, a sign appeared on "The New Guy's" door. It said,

"I am a Pyromaniac. And we are all going to be friends."

Author's note: I decided to make the Pyro female just for fun, for added creepiness factor, as it were.

I'm sorry this chapter is so late! I went back to school this week, which completely took over my mind. In a couple of weeks I'll be studying abroad, too, so that will halt updates for a while. Just warning you. Thank you for reading!


	9. 8 Dr Johannes Arzt

8 – Dr. Johannes Arzt

"_koff_… Doctor…"

"I'm here, Herr Nemo."

"Doctor, I'm in so much pain…"

"I know, Herr Nemo."

"Doctor, you've been so kind… so very kind… to an ailing soul without a friend in the world…"

"Only my duty, Herr Nemo."

"Doctor, I've… I've suffered so much… I just want to… _koff_… to sleep…"

"To sleep." Behind his glasses, the Doctor's grey eyes were cool. "I have heard that wish before." Still holding the patient's hand, he reached for his own personal box of equipment. "I will make it all better," he said, but his mouth twitched, as though suppressing a sob, or perhaps a smile.

Hardly visible in the sharp light, the needle gleamed in the Doctor's hand. "Now…" he rolled up the patient's sleeve, "We shall see…" The odd device on the patient's wrist caught his eye. "What is…"

"You shall see." Herr Nemo pressed a button on the wrist device. Suddenly the Doctor was surrounded by a light, and utterly unable to move at all. _Mein Gott!_

Herr Nemo sat up and stretched. He peeled off the makeup of old age and unbound his joints. Even his hair seemed to straighten up, more fiery red than before.

"That was an impressive bedside manner," he said crisply, in a much younger voice than before. "Right up until you lifted the needle of morphine to put me out of my misery, and then… to what? To dice up my body for your personal experiments? Or keep me alive so that I can tell you whether immolation or disemboweling is more painful?" He smiled at the silence. "Still ain't talking? Zero-point energy will do that to you. But perhaps you'll feel more moved to speak when I let on that I'm well acquainted with your work… Doctor Johannes Arzt. Wanted criminal on most of the European continent for … well, a prodigious number of homicides, several crimes against humanity, including kidnapping patients for your experiments on the nature of pain and fear – I read your thesis, by the way, _very_ compelling… and for failing to wash your hands before performing surgery."

'_That only happened _once_,' _Johannes Arzt thought irritably.

"However," Herr Nemo went on, "I am not affiliated with any of the thirteen governments who have placed a bounty on your head. Rather, I am the head of a private sector – Noman Corporations, it is called in your language. I believe you are acquainted with it? I am Mr. Pine, the founder and CEO."

Yes, Johannes Arzt knew the name. He had heard many things about this man… not all of it merciful… if he had not been utterly frozen, a cold sweat would have broken out on his brow…

"Have you heard that I've started a project?"

Silence.

"Oh. Right. Zero-point energy. Ahem. I've started a project. Whether you've heard of it or not, you have a keen interest in it, I'm sure. I'm accruing about me a few, a faithful few, a band of brothers, a small army of non-supers who will be the most respected and feared band of mercenaries on the planet. Without the aid of a single superpower, they shall astound the world." Mr. Pine smiled, and went on monologing gracelessly, "I have a Heavy Weapons expert, a true Soldier, an Engineer, a Demolitions expert, a Sniper, an accomplished Spy, and a self-admitted Pyromaniac. But last week, in a training exercise, I realized it wasn't enough. I have someone who can lead, someone who can plan, but I need someone who can help the group to keep going. In dark moments, when all hope and far too much blood has been lost, they will need someone to give them the strength to carry on. I need a Medic. You are both morally aligned to my mission, if I have presumed correctly, and you are also preternaturally skilled in the field of medicine. You have an astounding ability to keep your experiment subjects alive, even when they should be past all medical hope. In between your reports of horrific deeds, you are accredited with last minute rescues that bring tears to my eyes. And I do believe it was you, because I double-check all my sources."

He lifted his wrist. "Now, I'm going to turn off the Zero-Point energy. I'm going to trust that you won't run away."

Dr. Johannes Arzt didn't run away. He was too busy thinking.

He'd been caught. Trapped. Cornered. Imprisoned at last. And he had heard of the Team that Mr. Pine was gathering – of course he'd heard of it, and he would have volunteered to join. He liked working with other people. It was lonely to be by oneself all the time. Not to mention the opportunity to flex his medical muscles. However, there was one snag:

Johannes was a Super.

He had the ability to heal others of their wounds with soft blue energy that both rejuvenated their bodies and revitalized their nerves, leaving them awake and whole. That was his only ability, and he hadn't embarked on a superhero identity when the Supers Invisibility Act was passed in his home country. He'd always seen it as rather a soft power, but he enjoyed it and used it when he could. It helped so much in his experiments, when a patient could be brought back to tell you what _almost_ dying felt like. He couldn't bring people back from Death itself, but he hoped that one day, maybe…

"Dr. Arzt?" Mr. Pine asked again.

He started to attention. "Sir, I am… honored beyond expression that you think I am eligible for this project. Truly. I wonder, however… what sort of tests shall I have to pass to be fully accepted?"

"Well, we'll have to see how good you are at fighting… considering the number of police officers that you've butchered in your time, I think you'll do all right in that category… there'll be a vision and hearing test, of course, and colorblindness, too, very important… I suggested a blood toxins test, but our Demolitions man shot it down… literally… a simple DNA test that we'll administer so we have a record of it on file… and a short ethics test."

"And have all the other teammates passed these tests?"

"Well… that's the funny thing. I don't want anyone examining the team who isn't a member of the team. So you would have to administer all these tests yourself. … Mein Herr, why are you smiling?"

"Because I am looking forward to being a physician again, sir." '_Because I'm looking forward to being able to trick you, you insolent, Super-hating twit!_' Johannes mollified his smile to a more serious expression, but his mind was still listing out all the ways he could tamper with his DNA test results to show that he was not, in fact, a Super.

"Of course," he said. "I will be honored to be a member of your team." He stood up and shook Mr. Pine's hand. "I will not let you down, Mein Herr."

Here you are! I'm sorry this one is so late (again). My Internet has been down where I live. But better late than never! I hope you liked this chapter.


	10. Interim Food Fight

Interim – the Food Fight

Johannes Arzt, glad to travel freely for the first time in many years, without arrest warrants and bounty hunters on his head, arrived at Headquarters (or Base) within the week. Feeling rather peckish, he made his way to the cafeteria, where he investigated the sandwich-making station. He carefully chose a Kaiser roll and harvest-ground mustard. As he was deliberating over black forest ham or chicken breast, a bass voice behind him said,

"Are you going to be taking all day vit the sandvich?"

Johannes looked to the side – and then looked up. The biggest man he'd ever met was standing there, his bald pate glinting in the fluorescent light, and he was scowling down at Johannes. Johannes blinked up at him. "Pardon me, mein herr, but I am not yet done vit my sandvich."

"Don't you _Mein herr_ me!"

"I see you are a Russian," Johannes said calmly.

"And vat does _dat_ mean?" the Russian growled.

"It means that I am not yet done vit my sandvich and that you will not get a sandvich any faster by growling at me."

"I haff been breaking all my bones on dat fighting field since de break of day and I vant a _sandvich_ and you are taking all day vit the mustard and the roll and the meat! Just pick something!"

"I'll pick something, sure, but at the end I need something to _cut_ my sandvich with." Johannes reached into his pack and pulled out his bone saw. "Does this look good enough?"

"Ah, so you vant a _fight,_ eh?"

"Fighting vould be nice, yes!"

Johannes crammed the roll and mustard into his mouth and readied his weapon. The heavy guy threw the plate he'd been holding aside – it crashed through the window – and readied his fists. With a roar, he tore into Johannes – or tried to.

About five minutes into the fight Johnny, his rocket launcher slung over his back, came in and demanded an armistice at once, whereupon Johannes and Ivan looked at each other and instantly joined forces against him, pausing only to attack each other again. Sean came roaring into the fray, throwing pears and apples haphazardly into the mêlée. Before anyone knew it, Shane had reworked the coffee machine into a gun, and added a few touches here and there as it sprayed the fighters with boiling hot coffee. Then, from a perch high above, Ian began shooting into the fight to see if anyone would notice. They did – especially when Ian was shoved from the balcony by an invisible figure, who took out his butterfly knife and leapt gracefully into the brawl. Then "J," the Pyromaniac, with an inaudible roar (which may have been, "Food fight!"), raced in, branding everything in sight with a modified toaster oven.

By the time that Mirage arrived, the cafeteria was barely recognizable. She knew what she had do to.

Mirage stood up a little straighter, unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, and cleared her throat. This had an astounding effect: every single man froze and turned to look at her. Even the Pyro, noticing the lull, turned off the toaster oven.

"Well," she said slowly, allowing herself an amused smile, "It looks like we won't get anything eaten here… who wants to go out for lunch?"

This chapter is showing up a little early as an apology. I may even post the rest of the story before the week is out, but for now, enjoy this silly little snippet. The next chapter is probably my favorite, so look forward to that, and thank you for reading!


	11. 9 Jack B Nimble

9 – Jack B. Nimble

Jack Bratt Nimble had started out the lunch shift easy: as the clock was striking twelve he had his eyes closed and was humming easily, "_You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant…" _He heard the bell tinkle as the door opened. He opened his eyes and his jaw dropped.

"Hello, Jack," Mr. Pine hailed him. "Didn't know you worked here. I've got a bit of a business lunch happening and hope you don't mind." Behind him followed eight of the most oddly assembled looking men Jack had ever seen – hardly anything to unite them except for their united air of strength and intimidation.

Mr. Pine stepped to the counter first. "I'll have a club sandwich, Jack, all the fixings, and a ginger ale. And feel free to get a little something for yourself today, too." As he spoke, his team lined up behind him. One by one, they came and placed their orders.

"One croque-monsieur, _s'il vous plait_, with a glass of sangria."

"Hey, how'd you get in line ahead of me? Eh, whatever… I'll have a hot brown, if you've got those, and some cold Tennessee whiskey."

"One Sloppy Joe, soldier, and make it snappy!"

"I vould like…"

"And coffee."

"… I vould like…"

"And it had better taste like turpentine!"

"I am talking to de vaiter! You go avay! … I vould like salted herring, boiled beets, and boiled cabbage on rye. And I would like five of dose. With five shots vodka."

"A butterbrot with sliced sausage on the side. And a Berliner Weisse. _Danke_."

"Just Vegemite and butter on toast, mate, with an Old Geezer draft."

"Mmmff mfeef."

"What?"

"Mmmff mffeef!"

"… Sorry, you're going to have to repeat that."

"Mmmff… mffeef!"

"Roast beef? No? Okay, how about you just point to it on the menu there… _Oh!_ Grilled _cheese_! Okay, comin' right up."

"_Mmff _mffoo. Mm mmfra mmmfy."

"And… extra toasty?"

"Mms!"

"Anything to drink with that?"

"Mmmm."

"Milk? All right."

"Get me a tall Scotch Ale, alongside a haggis burrito and chips, laddie."

"Okay…"

"And I'll have a light Niçoise salad, please, with mineral water."

Jack blinked. The last diner was the foxy lady that Mr. Pine had hired the previous year. She gave him a smile that made him forget his own name. "And why don't you get something for yourself? Mr. Pine invited you to it."

"Err… all right." He hadn't had lunch yet, and couldn't possibly refuse anything of a dame like that. So he put in an order for his usual – a Chow Mein sandwich on white bread. Classic.

It took some time, of course, for the Chow Mein to be ready, so in the meantime he served all the customers. The drinks he served one right after the other. Then he dished out the salad so fast that the foxy lady honored him with a nod and another smile. Next, the butterbrot, for the man in the medical scrubs. "Very fast!" He smiled. "You could be Olympian."

"Just my usual, Doc. You should see me at the top of my game!"

"Dis is not de top of your game?"

"Far from it!"

The man took out his watch. "I vant to see the top of your game."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

Jack heard Alice yelling from the back, "Grilled cheese and hot brown, order's up!" He saw the other customers eye him, starting to frown, their stomachs grumbling like the dawn of a revolution.

He grinned.

"Well, watch and learn, Doc!"

He took off like a shot. He raced through the shop like a sirocco, depositing the grilled cheese and the hot brown in front of their respective patrons, and then leaped into the kitchen himself. "Lemme see that!" With a _gloop_ and a _sizzle_ he had the Sloppy Joe assembled and toasting in the oven. While it was roasting he slapped together the bacon, white toast, lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers for Mr. Pine's club sandwiches and sliced them into their perfect triangles. With a seamless gesture he speared them all on their respective toothpicks (complete with garnishes) and slipped the Sloppy Joe out of the oven. He yelled over his shoulder, "Get the haggis ready, Alice, and put that Vegemite where I can see it!" as he gave Mr. Pine and Johnny their meals.

By now he had the eyes of all the company on him. They watched as he swept together the ingredients for the Vegemite and cheese sandwich – he managed to even keep from wrinkling his nose as he lathered on the Vegemite ("Good and thick mate, that's the way to do it!"), and served it with a smile. The croque-monsieur was on Jacques' plate before Mr. Johnson had even time to take the first bite out of his.

Then, he single-handedly invented the haggis burrito before their very eyes. There was a round of applause as he slid it in front of the Demoman. "Och aye, lad, you do the fine dish of the haggis proud!" Sean said with a grin, biting into it.

"Oy! Jack! Your chow mein sandwich is ready!"

"Sweet! But… I feel like I've forgotten someone… someone important…" He took the plate with his Chow Mein sandwich and furrowed his brow, thinking. "Someone…"

A loud growl of _"Nom!_" interrupted his thoughts as the sandwich was lifted from his plate. "Hey!" he protested, then he saw who had taken it: it was the heavy, slow-talking Russian whose order for five sandwiches was taking a long time to prepare. He opened his maw and prepared to gobble the Chow Mein sandwich whole – only to have the plate tapped against his bald pate.

"Gimme that back," Jack said, in a low, dangerous voice.

As one, the patrons of the pub leaned forward.

Ivan's eyes narrowed.

What happened next was a brawl, a simple one-on-one spar that Alice's Restaurant had never seen equaled – nor has to this day. Jack leapt, scratched, bit, and, most importantly, _dodged_. He used plates, trays, juice bottles, and a well-placed pepper shaker against Ivan's slow but powerful girth. Mr. Pine did not stop them, and Mirage knew better than to stop them. The rest of the team chewed their various sandwiches, their eyes fixed on the fight, cheering like they were at a football rally – and not really caring who was winning or losing.

It was then that a hero was born – not Jack, though he was certainly doing well for himself. It was then that Alice, briefly awed like everyone else by the bout, realized that her dear restaurant could not long survive such a clash. So, she set a record of her own. Never before had five salted herring, boiled beet, and boiled cabbage sandwiches on rye been made in such record time, nor had a sandwich of that kind been given as a ceasefire offering. She kept the so-contentious Chow Mein sandwich on her other plate, just far enough away that Jack would have to cease pummeling Ivan in order to reach it. She even reached into her own pocket and brought the Atomic Punch out from behind the bar – Jack's favorite.

At once the fighters disengaged and each leapt upon his own repast. Thus a hero had her hour – an unsung hero, but a hero nonetheless.

And when Ivan bit into the sandwiches (one in each hand), he proclaimed that he had never tasted anything so delicious.

And Mr. Pine waited until Jack had finished his well-earned Chow Mein sandwich to take him outside for a while, and make a certain business proposition to him – an elevation of his prior occupation, if you will.

It was true, after all. You _could_ get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant – including a Scout.


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue: The Team

Ivan. Johnny. Shane. Ian. Sean. Jacques. "J." Johannes. And Jack.

Strength, spunk, skill, strategy, spontaneity, subtlety, single-mindedness, salubriousness, and speed.

With less alliteration, Mr. Pine assigned them codenames.

The Heavy. The Soldier. The Engineer. The Sniper. The Demolitions Man. The Spy. The Pyromaniac. The Medic. And the Scout.

At the same time, he picked out a codename for himself to go by, one that he'd been brewing in his mind for a long time:

Syndrome.

He had the team players, he had the catchy nicknames, and he had them all working together in a fairly cohesive whole. Now all he needed was the advertising campaign.

Mirage sat at a table opposite Ivan Ivanovitch. It was very much like Syndrome's first interview with the Heavy, only now a camera whirred behind her and it shook a little as the Heavy lowered Sasha onto the table and growled, "I am Heavy Weapons Guy. And _this_ –" he surveyed the weapon proudly – "is my weapon."

"Very interesting. Will you please tell me about it?"

"What makes _me_ a good _Demoman_? If I were a _bad_ Demoman, I wouldn't be sittin' here _discussin'_ it with ye now would I?!"

"No, Mr. MacEoin, I suppose you would not."

"I – I don't even know where to start with you. I mean, do you even know who you're talkin' to?"

"The Scout?"

"No, seriously. Do you have any idea, _any_ idea, who I am?"

"Mr. Jack Bratt Nimble?"

"Basically, _kind_ of a big deal."

"Ah."

"Snipin's a good job, mate. Plenty of work, outdoors, and I guarantee you'll not go 'ungry. 'Cuz as long as there's two people left alive on this planet, _someone_ is gonna want _someone_ dead."

Mr. Johnson paused. Then he added, in a rare personal mood, "I tell you, though, my parents? Do _not_ care for."

After a few of these interviews, Mirage had the idea to instead write and perform little skits. Most of them she integrated into the interviews to give them more life and flair, because just simple interviews rarely got the true spirit and intensity of the characters across. So, the Spy got an entire skit all to himself, and the Engineer got an interview in an arranged setting. The skits of the Pyro and the Medic took the longest time to arrange and film, but they were, without a doubt, worth it.

And what advertising campaign would be complete without a group picture? There was the official photograph with all of the Classes striking an impressive pose, and when that was done they dragged Syndrome into the photograph, where he smiled and jostled with the others, one of the boys, one of the team.

Syndrome kept that picture in his private study, and gave a copy to each of the boys.

"_Go go go!_"

"_Boink!_"

"_Yee-haw!_"

"Right behind you."

"Mmmrrff mrrfff mrff _mrff!_"

"And… boom. Headshot."

"Ah-ha ha ha! Cry some more!"

"That was doctor-assisted homicide."

"Och, they're gonna hafta glue _you_ back together… _in hell!_"

"Very good boys, very good. Another fine day's work. Now, have a good rest, and we'll do the same thing tomorrow."

The End

And that's it. I thank you all for reading, for your kind reviews, for being patient with me when I vanished for two weeks, and for enjoying the story as much as you have. For your sake I almost wish I had more written, but this was always meant to be a bit of brief fun. And anyway, with all the nifty new backstory being unearthed on Team Fortress 2, this fic is already partly invalidated. But, it's been fun for me, and I'm glad that you have enjoyed it so much.

Thank you all.


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